


Don't Let Me Do This To Myself

by honeyflow



Series: help me understand [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, Trans Male Character, had a really rough day and churned this out at like 2am, implied/referenced eating disorder, vent fic tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-21
Updated: 2018-06-21
Packaged: 2019-05-26 05:39:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14993975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeyflow/pseuds/honeyflow
Summary: "Sometimes I wish I were dead." He says across the table.





	Don't Let Me Do This To Myself

**Author's Note:**

> Some additional warnings include a very, very brief implication of past self-harm well towards the end of the fic; an implied eating disorder; and mentioned body shaming/verbal abuse/transphobia from a family member. It's not enough to tag but I feel it's important to know before proceeding.

It’s ten thirty in the morning. Prompto’s just sat down to an easy breakfast of cereal and sliced oranges, flicking through a photography magazine on his phone between spoonfuls of processed wheat and sugar. Not long after does his partner Isaac join him, sitting in the chair opposite him after fetching himself a glass of milk. A whole piece of fruit on a plate of its own awaits Isaac at the table. He fiddles with the dimples of an orange peel in their comfortable silence.

The orange spins, held carefully between slender middle fingers. “Sometimes I wish I were dead.” Isaac says across the table. Easily, like it’s nothing.

Prompto blinks, lowering his spoon from his already open mouth to rest in his bowl. Multi-coloured flakes rise from the instrument to mingle on the surface of the milk with the rest of their kind. Soon they’re indecipherable from one another; a kaleidoscope of sugar. 

Teeth catch his lip before he speaks. “What’s brought this on?” he says carefully. With a turn of his wrist, his phone screen finds the faux mahogany of the table top; the aperture article in front of him fades into nothing.

Isaac shrugs, quickly readjusting the shift of his shirt with a roll of his shoulders, hands and eyes never leaving his palms, where the orange now rolls slowly between them. “Just feel like it.” 

“I’m...” He pauses, looking to the floor for an eject button, cue cards, his off switch. The inside of his mouth burns where there are no good words. “Present, most days. Thinking. I can keep everything compartmentalized, but today I just feel nothing. I’m so incredibly angry that my teeth hurt and I can feel myself choking.” Citrus seeps into a hangnail on his stress-bitten fingers and he lets it, swallowing his grunt at the sting. His lungs balloon to steady himself and the air hisses between his teeth. “My aunt called.”

Oh. That can’t be good. Talks with Isaac’s aunt almost never were. Prompto hums in acknowledgement, chewing over the revelation. Whatever she said was undoubtedly acrid and unwarranted, and anxiety bubbles in his stomach on Isaac’s behalf.

Prompto's throat is tight. “What did she say?” 

“That it’s my fault.”

He puzzles. “What is?”

“Everything. The cuts, the bruises, the binding. My fault, all of it.” Isaac puffs out a dry, bitter laugh. He feels absolutely vile.

“Said that my issues with food were just an overreaction to being told something I didn’t want to hear. ‘Cause you know, every kid loves being told they look disgusting when they eat.”

Prompto chuckles mirthlessly. “Sits well with folks of all ages, doesn’t it?” 

The orange spins again, colour whirling on the surface of the table. “Right down to the..” As Isaac’s voice peters out, he lowers his hand to his lap in lieu of words. Inside, his abdomen tightens.

It’s dirty again.

“She told me I brought it on myself.”

“What?” comes Prompto’s indignant reply, knee striking heavily beneath the table as he rushes to stand, rattling the spoon in his bowl and the ice in his glass. Isaac catches the unsteadiness of his beverage and eliminates the threat of it over by drinking it, rather quickly, an autopilot reflex leaving his throat tacky. 

For two days he’s kept water in his mouth in lieu of food, goldfishing child-sized sips and holding the liquid in his jowls, begging himself not to eat. Hunger pangs wrack his abdomen and he relaxes his throat, lets the water slide down to fill the empty chasm with zero substance. The lack of substance is good, he tells himself. He’ll hold onto his demons less.

He takes another sip and holds it, swishing the liquid around as he works. The tears pricking his eyes are likely just eye strain.

Prompto is looking at him now, cornflower blue eyes dulled softly by what Isaac knows isn’t pity. He’s used to people looking at him like that, mouths downturned with the sob story blues. It pricks him at times when he puts on his binder.

Nobody in his family pities men; only accepts their moments of weakness as a means of getting stronger. His too small binder bruises his ribs as a reminder. Sometimes he wonders, if the right person asked, if it would do him in and crush his ribs. Puncture a lung. Just another sad transboy on the eulogy pile like his aunt wanted.

It’s only when Prompto is holding him that he realizes he’s said that out loud. Once again, he’s breathed sadness into a room hued yellow in his boyfriend’s presence. Careful to hold his tongue, Isaac lets the other thoughts – the unspeakable, hateful kind, the kind that crawl beneath his skin at night and make him near sick in therapy – pass through, unrestrained.

Isaac’s posture shrinks into a slouch as he thinks up a way to backpedal. He opens his mouth and finds his tongue heavy. He seals his lips. His cheeks are wet.

He should stop drinking water. 

Prompto holds Isaac as he denies the need for an embrace, as he trembles, as he weeps onto his Moogle Festival t-shirt and digs bitten, blunt nails into his sleeves. He keeps one hand on Isaac’s back as the other smooths back his hair, careful of the flyaways he’s now self-conscious about. 

Isaac sobs for his childhood and for the body he’s in, one riddled with long, winding scars of self-hatred on any surface his bladed hands could reach. The milk in his stomach is curdling, acrid, and he bites his lip until it’s raw and red and beaded with blood in a vain attempt to keep it down. His stomach, one trained from years of fingers down the column of his throat and bile leaking from his nose, lurches with no aid, and he dry-heaves onto the fabric of his boyfriend’s favourite shirt.

Though he grimaces at the sensation, Prompto strokes his partner’s back until he’s finished, later helping him into bed when he mumbles, “Can you help me with my binder? I want to lay down.”  
Prompto says nothing of the fresh, red bruises lining his bust.

The comforter is warm over his clammy skin, pillows soft beneath a tired, overwhelmed head. Isaac’s voice cracks when he speaks. “Thanks for staying.” 

A hand, tender and kind, massages the knots in his ribcage. “Thanks for fighting.” He hears Prompto say as he’s on the fringes of sleep.

Breakfast remains abandoned on the table.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading.


End file.
